Home
by sctwilightvampwolfgal
Summary: Marcello remembers home and how it is always more than he ever knew he needed when he was younger. *Deanon from the Hetalia Kink Meme.*


It was the scent of tomato sauce and the smell of fresh cooked pasta that often brought Marcello back.

He knew of the way the house always smelled, the sunshiney joy of a house that just felt like home and reminded all who entered of the love inside.

Marcello was no fool either; he'd learned pretty early on to savor the other smells too.

He remembered the clean smell of his only slightly older brother, Feliciano.

The youngest Italian remembered also of how strongly the Italian smelled of pasta as if not only did he keep himself clean, but he bathed in pasta noodles, in the raw hope that he could eat them soon.

It was a silly thought that Marcello had thought of often enough.

He remembered the almost soft smell of Feliciano too as if somehow his sweet and soothing nature carried through with the way that he smelled as if the boy physically became what his heart rejoiced in.

Marcello remembers his other older brother, Lovino, who always smelled of the bitterness of salt in a way that somehow wasn't scary.  
He smelled of fresh tomatoes, plucked right from a vine, as if he became that passion of his, his thrill of growing the best tomatoes around.

Lovino smelled almost warm in a sense that Marcello had no words to describe; his elder brother was another safe haven in a world where that often seemed rare.

He remembers how spices seemed to marry that smell of salt and perhaps that's why it didn't scare him.

Marcello loved Lovino's cooking the best though and may be that was why the scent of food that clung to Lovino only made him feel safer, more at home.

Still that house wasn't just the smell of home; there was a taste that lingered there and found its own home within the three walls surrounding it as the kitchen was opened up to the dining room.

Marcello could recall the mouth watering taste of fresh cooked pasta from Feliciano's skilled hands though sometimes he forgot a sauce or made it rather simply; it always tasted just right, the noodles fell on just the right consistency.

Feli's pastas were simple when compared to his eldest brother's recipes, but making pasta was never some massive prize awarding competition between them.

Marcello remembers the simple taste of olive oil and garlic and how they fell together flawlessly with a sweeter taste when his elder brother's homegrown tomatoes were thrown on top, perfectly diced.

He remembers how Parmesan cheese only made the pasta more addicting and how it reminded him of home, of love.

Marcello knows of the wonders of Feliciano's risotto too, of the delicate blend of rice that met his palate so flawlessly.

He remembers the taste of Lovino's fettuccine, of the rich blend of cheeses and spices that always reminded Marcello of how rich food could be and reminded him of how skilled his eldest brother was with spices and when tasked with making a great dinner.

Marcello wondered if perhaps their cooking played a role in who they were and how they smelled; he remembers the little things too.

He remembers feeling the soothing hugs of Feliciano whenever he felt far too down and even when he was perfectly happy.

Marcello remembers the joys of the slight shoulder pats of Lovino as little reminders of how much he cared and sympathized.

He remembers feeling the soothing embrace though a little tighter than any of Feli's hugs whenever Lovino dropped all pretense of keeping himself away from fully pulling his younger brother in and holding him, reminding him in simple cadence of words and tight embraces that he was loved and that the pain could never take him completely over.

Marcello remembers how soft Lovi's clothes always seemed when he was held in a tight embrace and how the contrast reminded him of the contrasts of life, how it can be bitter and sweet, kind and difficult.

He remembers the blends of the house's colors, how one step foot into the kitchen, it was beautifully simple, in the stunning light brown of wood and of the brightness that drifted in through the windows.

Marcello remembers the dark outer trim of the house when you first pulled into that light gray driveway that was long enough to be long but not long enough to feel unending.

He remembers the pretty greens of the garden out back with the bright reds of the tomatoes that managed to contrast perfectly where they lived.

Marcello knows the patio too out back with the light grayish white tone to the slightly bumpy seeming glass door and the beauty of the gentle pad along the wooden deck that slowly took you down into garden paths that led him along across towering tomato vines especially when he was younger and so much shorter than the plants that grew the most delicious tasting tomatoes.

He remembers how one day, he'd bought a tomato from the farmer's market and how angry, his eldest brother had been and how the screaming felt as if it shook the walls and made home almost seem less homely.

Marcello remembers how Lovi never understood his reasons; he wanted to prove to himself once and for all that his eldest brother's tomatoes were the best, and they were.

He remembers hearing the gentle yet nearly commanding voice of his other older brother and how he strode to calm him down with pleas that 'Marcello was young and so had to rebel somehow, someway.'

It seemed odd to be outside of the conversation, to be bitter and sick of crying, and to hear himself be talked about.

He remembers the way that Lovino woke him up the next morning with gentle nudges that didn't seem as rough as he was expecting and the cautious tale of how sorry he was.

Marcello knew that Lovino still had no idea why Marcello had bought someone else's tomato, but he felt as if it didn't matter.

He remembers jumping forward and hugging him; he remembers the tears that spilled from his eyes and the cool touch of more, this time from Lovino's eyes.

Marcello smiles at the memory of home and how it defines all that he misses when he's away and hopes that they'll both cook for him again when he shows up in that slightly curvy driveway that was long but not too long.


End file.
